Sick
by Rae Seddon
Summary: The finer details of immortality are best explored through experience.


Sick

Methos/Richie

_The finer details of immortality are best explored through experience._

It wasn't that Methos minded being asked to apartment sit—the simple fact of the matter was that MacLeod had no idea how often the ancient immortal spent at the dojo apartment _anyway_, so having a legitimate reason to raid the fridge (beer was always left in compensation) wasn't any skin off his back. What he did mind, was the fact that apparently Duncan had never gotten around to explaining to a certain protege what happened when an immortal got sick; which was why he stood, lean hip resting against the kitchen counter, as Richie Ryan heaved everything he'd eaten in the last week into a trashcan propped by the bed at the other end of the room.

"He really never told you?" Methos asked again, keeping one eye on the boy as another watched his fingers while he chopped a chunk of fresh ginger root.

"Never came up...uuugghh..." There was a pause as Richie gargled and spit weakly into the trashcan. "I never even got this sick when I _could_ die from it."

Sighing, Methos adjusted the temperature of a large brass tea kettle set on a burner and dropped the ginger in. "Wonderful. Well, as you see, immortals never do anything small when it comes to contagious diseases—little known fact of the Black Plague—it wouldn't have spread nearly as far if the immortals alive at the time were smart enough to stay put if they contracted it. They couldn't die from it, but they could carry and spread it." A shudder swept over the tall man at the memory. He could guess at a particular immortal who _relished_ helping the disease along any way he could.

"I'll try to remember—_what is that smell?_" Richie's indignation at the foreign scent pervading the apartment was palatable, causing a second mildly exasperated sigh to issue from the kitchen.

"Ginger infusion, it'll help settle your stomach—now the problem with getting sick and being an immortal is tricky _because,_" Methos continued without missing a beat, "just like our bodies heal physical wounds almost instantly, our white blood cells and antibodies work overtime too. But, if you get something persistent enough—bronchitis, pneumonia...anthrax, eventually the virus mutates faster than our bodies can fight it and-

_ Harf! _Richie's head vanished over the side of the bed for the twentieth time that morning.

"Exactly." Suppressing the urge to chuckle Methos turned his attention to figuring out wherever it was MacLeod had begun keeping his loose tea—he swore the man redecorated every other week sometimes. He finally found a tin of green tea and a tiny infuser ball, dropping it into the mug he'd already set out next to the stove. Just as the kettle started to whistle he poured in the spicy smelling liquid, nostrils flaring at the intensity of it.

"So when did you figure all this out?" Richie asked, his voice rough as he attempted to settle deeper into the covers. Bringing over the mug, Methos shrugged non-committal, broad shoulders scrunching up and falling straight again swiftly.

"Doesn't matter, really, does it?"

"I'm curious, and it'll keep my mind off the fact that my body hates me right now." Despite the sarcasm there was something distinctly earnest in the request that made Methos hover by the bed a moment before placing the mug on a bedside table cluttered with two tissue boxes and a small basin of water with a moist cloth draped over the edge. Distractedly, he reached over to the basin and rung out the cloth, dabbing the boy's forehead with it gently.

"I spent a lot of time as a doctor in one form or another." Methos said simply, wiping a little at the edge of Richie's temples. "Must have had over a hundred tutors— Amazonian witch doctors,Native American medicine men, European alchemists,Chinese herbalists—a lot of it was just trial and error...how most people learn anything." He shrugged again. "You live as long as I do, things just stop seeming as significant anymore."

Richie laughed hoarsely. "I dunno man, it's pretty significant to me right now." Tentatively, the young man reached for the still-steaming mug and took a deep breath. The look on his face said that he expected to be throwing up again any second but instead he sat there, letting the little white whisps obscure the line of a strong jaw. "Hey, this doesn't seem too bad..."

"Works better if you actually drink it." Methos teased, putting the cloth back in its basin.

"I'm getting there..." visibly bracing, Richie brought the mug to his lips and drank slowly, face contorting at the taste, but as the moments passed he seemed to relax and two pale copper eyebrows quirked up appraisingly. "Well I'll be damned, stuff actually works."

"Drink it all, I need to run down to the bar and put something expensive on MacLeod's tab." The ancient immortal said with a wry, sardonic smile. "Apartment sitting is one thing, having the _doctor in_ is something completely different." Shaking his head, Methos turned and pulled his coat off a near-by chair, wondering how much he could really get away with ordering under the pretense that MacLeod owed him.


End file.
